Nasty by Dr. Xyz Page B
Authors: Dr. Xyz
Tags: Fiction, General, Erótica, Romance, Medical, Biography & Autobiography, Foreign Language Study, Adult, African American, African American women, Urban Life, Urban Fiction, Divorced women, AIDS (Disease), Aids & Hiv
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“guilties” were beginning to haunt him. He wanted to blame everything on Nicola. After all, he had not provoked her. On the real side of truth, he was guilty of not pulling away. She hadn’t exactly raped him.
What really made him feel lower than the crud between his toes, was that he wanted it to happen again. Not only did he want a repeat, he wanted more from Nicola. He wanted to make love to her. In fact, at that moment, having sex and worshipping at the feet of the one woman he knew to be a genuine Black Goddess Queen of Love, was his only goal in life. Fuck college…fuck basketball…but most of all, fuck the Teens for Abstinence Club. He needed to fuck Nicola.
Nicola’s entrance into the room shocked the young basketball player back into the present. Wearing an Edward Williamson original, a snug-fitting, fuchsia-colored pantsuit that advertisedher goods without giving them all away, she was nothing short of fabulous. Jonathan, impressed, whistled loudly. Nicola twirled and modeled her outfit.
“You think Carlos will like this?”
Now it was his turn to straighten things out. “Nicola, about what just happened, I don’t think…”
“You mean that little massage? That was nothing, Jonathan. Something between new friends. Don’t even worry about it. Just act like it never really happened, okay?” With that, she opened the front door. “Time for the concert.”
They rode back to Brooklyn chatting about simple, benign, everyday life. Anybody listening would never guess that anything other than a platonic relationship existed between the two. And, as Jonathan regretfully admitted to himself, that was indeed all that they had…that and the memory of his very first blow job.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
E
li looked at the clock. It was 5:30 in the morning. He pulled back the curtain and saw the sun rise up into the sky to start a brand-new day. Today was his boy’s show. He reached out and grabbed the Bible off his nightstand. He turned to the twenty-third Psalms and pulled out the meticulously folded news article he’d placed there for safe keeping. In the center of the first page of the entertainment section of the
Amsterdam News
, was a picture of Tarik. Since he got the flyer a week ago, an article about Tarik appeared in the weekly newspaper.
For the thousandth time he read it. He’d memorized almost every word. The journalist had given many details of Tarik’s career. He particularly beamed with pride when his boy was described as a “genius poet/songwriter.” What really made Eli happy, was that an itinerary of his show dates revealed he’d be performing in Prospect Park. It was only a short cab ride away. He was elated. Nothing in this world would keep him from attending the event today.
Slowly rising from bed, Eli prayed his frail health would hold out. He didn’t have to speak to Tarik. He just wanted to see him. He was so proud of this young man. Ophelia and the man who had adopted Tarik had obviously done a wonderful jobraising him. He no longer regretted signing the papers that officially cut him out of his only child’s life.
Trying to look as presentable as possible, he decided to trim his scraggly gray beard. Completely bald, he’d lost his hair when he participated in an AIDS drug trial while in jail. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. A gaunt, scary face stared back. When Eli entered prison over five years ago, the scaled tipped in at 165 pounds. For a six-foot-two man he was thin then. This week, he weighed a whopping 130 pounds. The disease had reduced him to skin, brittle bones, and according to his last round of tests, a blood profile so abnormal it was damn near incompatible with life.
After five years of fighting infections, the tuberculosis that refused to respond to standard treatment, and the anti-viral meds and their crippling side effects, Eli was nearing the end of the battle. This time, he would not emerge the victor.
Brushing his teeth, a comforting thought
What really made him feel lower than the crud between his toes, was that he wanted it to happen again. Not only did he want a repeat, he wanted more from Nicola. He wanted to make love to her. In fact, at that moment, having sex and worshipping at the feet of the one woman he knew to be a genuine Black Goddess Queen of Love, was his only goal in life. Fuck college…fuck basketball…but most of all, fuck the Teens for Abstinence Club. He needed to fuck Nicola.
Nicola’s entrance into the room shocked the young basketball player back into the present. Wearing an Edward Williamson original, a snug-fitting, fuchsia-colored pantsuit that advertisedher goods without giving them all away, she was nothing short of fabulous. Jonathan, impressed, whistled loudly. Nicola twirled and modeled her outfit.
“You think Carlos will like this?”
Now it was his turn to straighten things out. “Nicola, about what just happened, I don’t think…”
“You mean that little massage? That was nothing, Jonathan. Something between new friends. Don’t even worry about it. Just act like it never really happened, okay?” With that, she opened the front door. “Time for the concert.”
They rode back to Brooklyn chatting about simple, benign, everyday life. Anybody listening would never guess that anything other than a platonic relationship existed between the two. And, as Jonathan regretfully admitted to himself, that was indeed all that they had…that and the memory of his very first blow job.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
E
li looked at the clock. It was 5:30 in the morning. He pulled back the curtain and saw the sun rise up into the sky to start a brand-new day. Today was his boy’s show. He reached out and grabbed the Bible off his nightstand. He turned to the twenty-third Psalms and pulled out the meticulously folded news article he’d placed there for safe keeping. In the center of the first page of the entertainment section of the
Amsterdam News
, was a picture of Tarik. Since he got the flyer a week ago, an article about Tarik appeared in the weekly newspaper.
For the thousandth time he read it. He’d memorized almost every word. The journalist had given many details of Tarik’s career. He particularly beamed with pride when his boy was described as a “genius poet/songwriter.” What really made Eli happy, was that an itinerary of his show dates revealed he’d be performing in Prospect Park. It was only a short cab ride away. He was elated. Nothing in this world would keep him from attending the event today.
Slowly rising from bed, Eli prayed his frail health would hold out. He didn’t have to speak to Tarik. He just wanted to see him. He was so proud of this young man. Ophelia and the man who had adopted Tarik had obviously done a wonderful jobraising him. He no longer regretted signing the papers that officially cut him out of his only child’s life.
Trying to look as presentable as possible, he decided to trim his scraggly gray beard. Completely bald, he’d lost his hair when he participated in an AIDS drug trial while in jail. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. A gaunt, scary face stared back. When Eli entered prison over five years ago, the scaled tipped in at 165 pounds. For a six-foot-two man he was thin then. This week, he weighed a whopping 130 pounds. The disease had reduced him to skin, brittle bones, and according to his last round of tests, a blood profile so abnormal it was damn near incompatible with life.
After five years of fighting infections, the tuberculosis that refused to respond to standard treatment, and the anti-viral meds and their crippling side effects, Eli was nearing the end of the battle. This time, he would not emerge the victor.
Brushing his teeth, a comforting thought
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